


Colors

by kronette



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters were good because they fought against evil. It was very black and white. Seven years hunting with his brother hadn’t changed Dean’s view of religion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 19 April 2006 @ 12:15 am

No one in their family had been religious. Certainly not dad, and not what he could remember of their mother. A traumatized four year-old should be forgiven for not remembering details, even of her. Sundays were spent waiting for dad to come back to the hotel room, to return to Lawrence and to school on Monday. Even in his pre-teen years, when he began to truly understand what it was their dad hunted, Dean never felt the pull of religion. Demons and creatures and poltergeists were evil; people needed protection from them. The Winchesters were good because they fought against evil. It was very black and white. 

Seven years hunting with his brother hadn’t changed Dean’s view of religion. Not even when they found dad’s body outside Wheatley, Arkansas, did Dean think to pray for him. It looked like dad put up a hell of a fight, the stubborn son of a bitch. The local paper said that the mysterious disappearances had stopped occurring, so John Winchester hadn’t died in vain. That was enough for Dean, but it wasn’t enough for Sam. 

No, Sam wanted to have a _service_ with a priest or father or some religious authority figure, right there in Wheatley. 

“No, Sam,” Dean replied, continuing to stare out the hotel window. The sky was threatening, with severe thunderstorm and tornado warnings across the state. The outside weather was nothing compared to the tempest raging inside that hotel room.

“How can you say no? Dad would want this,” Sam argued, tears in his voice. 

His impatience with Sam’s little idiosyncrasies was reaching a boiling point. “Look, Sam, we aren’t religious; you know that. Saying some words over dad’s body won’t make a bit of difference. We’ll consecrate the ground, bury him with all the precautions, and nothing will disturb the body.” 

“Fuck, Dean, he was our _father_ ,” Sam intoned harshly, coming up behind him and spinning him around. “How can you treat him like…?” 

“Like another body we discovered?” Dean finished for him, hating the shocked look on his little brother’s face. Emotional detachment was part of the job, and of all of them, Dean understood that most. Dean was his father’s son through and through; he would honor his father’s wishes. “I loved dad. He taught me to survive. He taught me to be strong. I’ll survive and be strong for him; that’s what he’s expected of me ever since I was old enough to hunt on my own. He wouldn’t want us grieving; he’d want us to keep living; keep surviving.” 

Sam’s pleading was back full force, anger fueling him. “I need this to let him go. I need this for me. Can’t you understand that?” 

Dean felt the tension in his shoulder blades, but couldn’t shake it. He knew his next words would determine if Sam would continue to hunt with him or send him packing. The last year had been hell on them both, with the constant bickering and deadly miscalculations on several of their hunts. Death put a wedge between them, coalescing to this one point in Wheatley. Dean wasn’t naïve; he believed they had been _led_ here by the evil that still hunted them, that which killed mom and Sam’s girlfriend. He wanted out of Wheatley  _now_ before that evil returned to finish off the rest of their family. 

Dad would approve of his logic. Dad would approve of his decision.

Narrowing his eyes, he said, “Dad wouldn’t want it,” as he passed by Sam on his way out the door, not wanting to have another argument, another showdown, another ultimatum. He knew Sam would be gone when he returned. It was for the best; now Dean could concentrate on the hunt and not have to look after anyone’s back but his own. 

He sweet-talked one of the local ladies in the only bar in town, danced with her to some awful country shit, and went back to her place late that night for release and sleep. 

When Dean returned to the hotel in the morning, Sam’s things were gone. Not even a note; not that he was expecting one. Dean packed the Impala and headed east to Memphis; he’d always wanted to know if the rumors of Elvis’ ghost were true. 

~~~

Nearly two years later, in a missionary church in Arizona, Dean’s life changed again. Local reports were spotty on the killings, but the deserted feeling of the town told Dean all he needed to know. He examined the church, checking for EM readings or other signs of spirits. Nothing at the back, but as he neared the altar, his handmade machine picked up something. 

He spun around and nearly shot the presence behind him, immediately lowering the weapon when he recognized the face. The dark hair was long and greasy; the clothes ratty, but it was Sam’s eyes – haunted and hunted and just about wild – that drew Dean closer.

“Sammy? Sam, what are you doing here?” he asked, guiding Sam to the pews and making him sit. He slid into the pew next to his brother, weapon forgotten on the seat next to him. 

“You,” Sam rasped, then went into a coughing spasm. 

Dean’s arms immediately went around his brother, offering him support. At the first touch, he knew something was wrong.

The coughing abruptly stopped and Sam’s head came up, eyes locking with Dean’s, freezing him to the spot. Eyes that should have been hazel, should have shone with recognition, held no shred of familiarity or humanity. 

Just bloodlust. 

_Fuck_ , Dean thought, as his world went black around him. 

~~~

Repeated slaps to his face brought him out of unconsciousness – again – and he didn’t bother to hold back a pained whimper. Body and mind toyed with beyond endurance, he just wanted it to _end_ , but the demon wouldn’t end it. 

Splayed out in a mockery of the crucifix above him, Dean could get no purchase, no leverage to move himself away from the demon. He tried to find that place within himself, the place where bad things didn’t happen to him. Sam – not Sam, _not Sam_ \- wouldn’t let him. Knew all his tricks. Knew his weaknesses. Knew _him_ , as he felt blood pool on his stomach and drip in an ever-spreading puddle beneath him. A demon not just with Sam’s face, but Sam’s mind, Sam’s knowledge, and Dean was going to die by his brother’s hands. 

_No_ , he would not give in. Would not give  _it_ the satisfaction. 

The demon straddled Dean’s torso, avoiding the thin, metal cross thrust into Dean’s thigh. Dean tried to look away, but it was  _Sam's_ eyes; S _am’s_ face. Tears leaked out of his eyes as his jaw was grabbed, the demon’s heat searing his flesh. 

A myriad of voices thundered in Dean’s ears, the Voice of the demon in Sam. “The Winchesters will plague us no longer. This body’s soul is destroyed. You are all that remains.” 

Another scream was ripped from his raw throat as hands burned their marks into his chest. His screams had nowhere to go – duct tape from his _own damn bag_ was stretched across his mouth. Every time he screamed, he could feel the skin tear and tasted blood. No one had come in the hours since he’d first seen Sam, and Dean held no illusions that someone would. 

The demon went back to Dean’s bag, searching through it for more torture implements, and the demonic control slipped just enough. Dean had one chance. His arms felt like lead weights, but he _moved_. He ripped the cross out of his pinned thigh and slammed the point straight into Sam’s – the demon’s – heart. 

The unholy roar shook the church. Dean ripped the tape from his mouth and quickly spat out the incantation to send the demon back to hell. The Latin was garbled on his swollen tongue, but he managed it well enough, and Sam’s limp body dropped to the floor in its own pool of blood. 

Dean crawled over, dragging his bad leg and holding his left arm to his side. Sam’s eyes shifted to him; breathing erratic as his punctured heart leaked everywhere. Sam’s lips moved but no sound came out, or Dean just couldn’t hear him; all he could see/feel/smell was Sam’s blood.

“I’m sorry, Sammy; so sorry,” he croaked, throat dry. He pushed the hair from Sam’s face, but Sam’s eyes had slipped closed, and the blood had stopped pumping all over the place. Swallowing hard, Dean made it over to his bag and retrieved the gasoline. 

~~~

The night sky was lit in oranges and yellows as the flames reached the steeple. Dean stood transfixed by the sight, fists jammed into his jacket pockets. The town awoke around him, sirens wailing in the pre-dawn light, people rushing to save their church. It was too late; Dean knew. He’d seen enough fires to know when a building could be salvaged. This wasn’t one of those times. 

As the burned lumber crashed to the ground and the fire tired itself out, Dean tore his gaze from the remains to examine the crowds gathered around him. Small groups of people wailed at the injustice of God’s House being razed to the ground. The paramedics were tending others: sooty and coughing, they were obviously those who had tried to rush inside or to put out the fire. 

Dean’s life used to be black and white. Now it was the sooty gray streaks on the firemen’s faces. The dark gray smoke curling into the still air from the embers. The bleakness of the shattered life around him. 

Good became evil. Evil became good. Dean didn’t know which he was, anymore. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Their father’s journal was Dean’s sacred script. The pained lines on his face were his holy confessional. The blankness of his eyes reflected the emptiness of his eternal soul. 

He felt Sam’s presence at his side and willfully ignored it.

“Dean.” Sam was quiet, yet insistent. “ _Dean_ , please. There’s not much time.” 

Dean closed his eyes against the desperation pouring from Sam. He could feel the seconds tick by with every echoing thud of his heart. He struggled with the one word he’d wanted to scream for hours: “No.” 

Sam’s voice was oddly devoid of all emotion as he said, “You did what you had to do.”

Dean watched impassively as the firemen sorted through the rubble. Soon, his _obligation_ would be discovered, and questions asked. He didn’t have the strength to provide answers. He didn’t want to think; not now, not ever. 

A tremor went through Dean, causing bursts of pain throughout his body. “I should have let it kill me,” he retorted, eyes narrowing at the ground. “I should have _made_ it kill me. Now it won't be so easy.” He didn’t think of it as committing suicide. No, he was a Winchester; ‘killing himself’ was more their style. That’s what they did; kill things. Demons. Evil. 

Startled, horrified, recognition crossed Sam’s features. “No, Dean. You can’t. If you do this…you can’t…you won’t be able…”

“They’re not my rules, Sammy,” he replied quietly. “And you couldn’t stop me,” he added, swaying on his feet. The numbness was starting to wear off; reality was a crash away. He had to leave; had to stay; had to have answers that he would never, ever get. 

Wielding an inner strength he didn’t know still existed, Dean looked directly into Sam’s eyes: no longer unfamiliar or vengeful. “Tell me you felt the demon burning you as it controlled you. Tell me you cried as the demon tormented me. Tell me you felt the metal tear into your flesh and break your bones. Tell me you felt the cleansing fire burn it away, leaving your purified soul behind.” 

Tears shimmered in Sam’s eyes, but didn’t fall. “Your actions saved me, Dean. If you take your own life, you negate that. Me – my soul – is my own because of _you_. Don’t demean that. Just…don’t.” A familiar head tilt from Sam had Dean shaking. “Besides, who would protect the innocent if you were gone?”

The tremors increased in intensity, causing blood to ooze down Dean’s body from the multitude of wounds he’d suffered. Trust Sam, no matter his state of being, to play that trump card. Dad’s work; their work had to continue. And Dean was the only one left to do it. Maybe he didn’t know if he was good or evil, or something in the middle, but he still had a job to do. 

Numb once again, Dean blurted out, “Is it true you won’t remember me? I’ve heard that in some variations of Christianity, anyway. Will there be a happy reunion with Mom and Dad? Will you maybe get your own cloud pillow or whatever the hell you sleep on – do you sleep? Or do you leave everything of the flesh behind?” He stopped, breathing heavily, finally seeing the tears wet Sam’s face. “Is there even a heaven, Sammy? Or is it a lie we tell kids and old people to comfort them when we can’t face what’s real?” 

Sam seemed to fade before his eyes. “Dean, please…”

“Stop begging me, Sam! You’ve been whining and begging since we were kids, and I’m fucking tired of it! You can’t manipulate me anymore; it’s done. Go, Sam.” His voice cracked, and tears filled his eyes as he realized this was it. “Go,” he whispered and turned his back on his brother’s spirit.

No one noticed his limp as he walked back to the car. No one questioned the blood-soaked clothes or the torn skin around his mouth. He kept his left hand inside his jacket as he awkwardly open and shut the Impala’s door. He clenched the keys in his good hand, ignoring the pain rifling down from his upper arm. 

His body might be permanently damaged from the torture. His soul was irreparably shattered; the bleeding pieces left behind with his brother’s body. Tears stung his burned cheeks, the salt slipping deep into the wounds. 

The keys jangled in his hand, reminding Dean he needed to get away before questions arose about the body inside the church. Grimacing against the pain, he started the car and pushed on the gas, steering onto the open highway. 

Dean’s life used to be black and white. Now it was stained crimson and burned with orange flames. He may not fully believe in heaven, but hell was reality enough: it was life on earth without your family. 

The End


End file.
